Locks
by Sekah
Summary: When the new prisoners were brought in, one stood out far more than the rest. His name was Kurama, a boy with a dark past and a darker future. With the threats of his new cellmate, Karasu, there's only so much a young serial killer can do.
1. A Nest of Enemies

A/N: This is an AU, based very loosely on the American correctional system as opposed to the Japanese one. This is coming out of my own head, so forgive all the inaccuracies and misconceptions. Thank you!

* * *

><p>The raucous clangs and shrieks blurred together into a wave of noise, a wrinkle folding into the smooth peaks of Kurama's forehead. He examined the walls of his cell, spoiled milk and egg whites, and leaned forward to feel their broad planes, finding them rough to the touch, and devoid of sharp corners he could use to smash a scull against or slice open his own wrist. Sitting primly on the cot, blanket in hand, he contemplated what a shame that was. His fingers strayed from the coarse fabric to search for and find the screws of the metal bunk, feeling them shaved down and corner-less. Again, he thought caustically, no luck.<p>

The other prisoners' voices faded in and out like a radio being tuned, only the most important details coming through. "The Gentleman? That little kid?" one asked.

"Sixteen and already in a high security prison. He must be feeling lonely." The lust couldn't be moved by Kurama's indifference. He could hear cloth scrape, and realized with a flicker of disgust that the speaker was massaging himself through his pants. The voice rose to a shout. "Are you feeling lonely, boy? Daddy will take care of you."

Kurama blinked, annoyed, and thought calmly of killing him: of tying him down with the bed sheets and twisting his balls until he'd castrated him with his bare hands, and then letting him live in this prison for months afterwards before he finally ended it.

Others were shouting too, now, crowding outside this little purgatory, beaten back by a nameless guard and his baton. The skin above Kurama's lips tightened into a sneer, goading the rabble into a frenzy, making them righteous, and soon, though Kurama had never moved, the lone guard that stood between him and the mob forming outside his door was whistling, and more officers came bounding through the corridor and down the stairs to the first level of cement and steel apartments.

Kurama knew how much they wanted him. It would be dangerous here, that was already clear, but his will had been tested to its furthest limits long before he came to this prison. He trusted himself, and his own desire to survive. He was untouchable by trash like this.

* * *

><p>"You're lucky, pretty fish."<p>

"Am I?" Kurama asked disdainfully, his attention on the food in front of him. The sleazy conman slid a leg over the plastic bench and sat himself down next to him without any provocation. Men had died for less, but Kurama needed information more than he needed to deal with this irritation promptly.

"You are. Karasu's in lockdown right now, so you have your little cell all to yourself. It won't remain so comfy for long, unfortunately." The prisoner didn't bother adding sincerity to his voice. His gloating was starting to distract Kurama from the unappetizing mound of beef and overcooked vegetables that sat stewed together on his plate.

"Karasu?" The disdain, which lightened emerald eyes to a soft aquamarine, was morphing, turned to something much more sinister and complete; but the thug wrote it off easily in favor of sadism and lust. Greasy fingers slid along the plastic edge of the table, and then dipped underneath it, resting tauntingly near the slim curve of a hip.

"You didn't know?" the man crowed, delighted. "He has a taste for fine young things like yourself—and they're hard to come by, around here." The man's hand moved from a jaunty position by his waist, spread on the uncomfortable plastic lattice of the bench, to the hard length of Kurama's thigh, worming its way between tight muscles to caress the front of his stanchion-orange pants. He turned his head to the side and smiled a skewed smile into the blank glass eyes, feeling it flicker when Kurama looked straight ahead, his face inhumanly impassive. He was about to say more, leaning in and pressing down coyly with his fingers, when suddenly he was overtaken by an odd sensation.

He was falling back, hard, landing on his head with an audible crack and letting out a cut, wet shriek that turned heads all over the dining area towards them, curious necks craning. The conman looked up, far up, into expressionless eyes, and felt the strain of Kurama's foot against his neck.

"If I were to apply pressure," Kurama said conversationally, "I could snap your neck at this angle. You might survive it, and be paralyzed for life—you might not." He smiled and leaned down, putting just a bit more weight on his foot, long burgundy locks framing a sweet schoolboy face that jarred with the prisoner's clothes. "Do you think I should?" he asked gently.

The man gibbered, his hands jerking, trying to collect himself well enough to defend his suddenly feeble life through the fog surrounding him. Kurama smiled, and lifted his foot, intending to bring it down with a correct application of force, when a large set of hands hooked under his arms and lifted him up and off, setting him down gently about a foot away. Kurama hissed, eyes wide and flashing, and his graceful hand, which had been silently concealing a plastic fork, flipped the utensil around and attempted to slam it into the restraining arm.

The pain he had expected his opponent to feel was met with silence, and the plastic prongs bent, as though he were slamming them into a stone, and not a man. He looked down at a forearm built of pure muscle, and blinked, regaining his cool easily.

"Is there something wrong here, Toguro?" a guard asked, striding anxiously over to the site of the disturbance.

"Roto fell back on his head. You might want to take him to the infirmary, officer," a voice rumbled from behind Kurama, making the massive chest he was being held against vibrate pleasantly. Kurama watched as the order was barked into the radio by the C.O.'s chin, and marveled at the deference the guard was showing this man, coupled by the reverence he saw in the silent mass of other prisoners as he glanced covertly around him.

"That was foolish, boy."

Kurama blinked at the rough lips and stolid chin that scraped against his sensitive ear, refusing to shudder as hot, heavy breath eased against him and sent shivers crawling down his body. "It was necessary," he replied.

"It was reactionary and stupid. When Karasu comes, I advise you not to be so obvious—things will go very hard for you if you do."

"Who is this Karasu? And who are you?"

"Karasu is a nightmare for a boy like you. I'm no one important. Still, remember this—if you need to quit this world, come to me. I won't be adverse to helping you."

_Cryptic,_ Kurama thought, and finally looked up at the towering man who stood behind him, finding a pair of small, beetle-black eyes far above himself, set into an angular body of pure, unadulterated muscle. "That won't be necessary," he said, and turned back to watch the stretcher carry the conman Roto away. He swung his legs over the bench, and sat down to his food without another word, using the fork he had tried to spear Toguro with to eat after only a moment of hesitation, the soggy green beans tearing apart in his mouth.

Toguro chuckled, and when Kurama next turned to look at him, he was far down the room, walking between cons that bent in homage as he passed, like Moses parting the Red Sea.

* * *

><p>His cell, he discovered in the inordinate amount of time he was expected to spend there, was too simple to provide much entertainment, which made the book cart and the library a necessity. Both of those, however, had been picked clean, and it didn't take him long to start requesting other books, from Tolstoy's Anna Karenina to Stendhal's The Red and the Black. Within a few days of coming, he had thwarted so many slights and rape attempts he had earned the official title Dangerous. Betting pools were taken up over who would be the first to have him and how they would manage it, so many desiring to initiate Kurama into the world of a prison. The bloodlust was reaching a frenzy before two weeks were out, the sight of him walking blankly down the hallways, pretty as sin, nearly causing the tumultuous level of a riot.<p>

Kurama was unfazed.

* * *

><p>The guards were looking the other way. That was what tipped Kurama off—they should have had their eyes on the prisoners, but to a man they were watching the walls. He braced himself, his hand slipping into his pocket, and seconds later a salty palm smothered his mouth and he was being dragged out of line, into a supply closet that opened and then shut behind him, cutting off light. It was dim in there, the high barred windows giving everything a twilight glow, and Kurama's eyes burned in the darkness, his skin glistening with sweat.<p>

A big inmate strolled covertly out from behind the rows of metal shelving, stocked almost exclusively with tomato paste. Large scars crisscrossed his body and fat, slobbering lips smirked as he grunted, "I get first taste." Kurama sneered, hissing as one of the men holding him dug his fingers into his arms and shook him sharply. Kurama's head snapped back, but he didn't stop sneering.

"Aw Bakken!" another man, solid and blond, moaned, as a third laughed. Their eyes appraised their selection, gazes resting on Kurama's skin, slick as motor oil. Kurama said nothing, his lips tight and his eyes wide with hate.

"I get first taste," the man repeated, and grunted, walking forward and undoing his pants, reaching inside with no warning to pull out his half-hard cock, already turning an ugly purple as it stiffened. They forced Kurama to his knees—he let them. "You bite, I beat. Capiche?"

Kurama frowned hatefully, and then suddenly smiled. His lips open and his eyes looking deviously up, he darted out his tongue and curled it wetly around the head of the cock, not reacting to the horrible musky smell. The two men restraining him dropped his arms in shock.

"Holy shit!"

"Look at that slut!"

Bakken groaned hideously, letting out pathetic, keening whines that made the skin around Kurama's nose tighten. He was so caught up in pleasure that he didn't see Kurama's hands drift up until it was too late, and it took him a few seconds to register the change.

"Ah—ah, ow—goddamn—what're you doing? Oh my god, what the fuck are you _doing?"_he shrieked, and began to scream like a girl, his voice getting higher and higher pitched as he tried to draw back.

As best he could, Kurama sank his teeth into the head of Bakken's penis with no compunctions, hot blood beginning to spray into his mouth, and continued methodically sawing his balls off with the knife he had stolen from another inmate not an hour ago. Meaty hands went down to drag at Kurama's hair, and Kurama opened his jaw and let them pull him back, his other hand grabbing Bakken's manhood and twisting, Bakken doubled over and shouting in pain, too far gone to knee him.

Kurama spat the blood from his mouth. "The damage I've done can still be reversed. If you don't let me walk out of here now, I'll keep going until this stallion is gelded."

"You're fucking crazy," the big blond one whispered, the supply room ringing with Bakken's inarticulate cries of agony. Kurama smiled.

"Maybe. Am I free to go?" The two others hurried to get out of his way, and Kurama led Bakken out by his dick. Bakken took a few steps under Kurama's duress, and then collapsed on top of him, passing out from the pain. In an instant Kurama had rolled him to the side and onto the ground, his now flaccid dick red, fleshy carnage.

Still threatening it, he motioned for the men to get further out of the way. They did, watching him with horror, hardened cons and rapists who none-the-less quailed at the sight of something they could not understand—a sixteen year old boy who had just castrated a man without blinking, his hands coated in crimson and his eyes holding an absence that chilled them to the bone. The blond one shook—the other one gaped. Neither of them turned when the door opened, transfixed by the gory sight before them.

"What the hell is going on in here?" the guard in the doorway asked, his eyes drawn to the bleeding, moaning mess on the floor.

"A thwarted rape attempt," Kurama said softly. "He pulled a knife on me."

The guard was barely listening, yelling high-pitched into the radio by his neck, calling for a stretcher. Kurama tossed the knife to the side, listening to it clatter, and looked into the two conmen's faces, one at a time.

They stuck to his story like clockwork, told the whole tale as if Kurama were the defenseless hero, and before an hour was out the guards were utterly convinced that Bakken was the one who had pulled a knife. The other prisoners were much more careful after that, and the attempted assault rates dropped exponentially. Kurama was no longer just Dangerous—he was fucking insane.

That was how things stood the day Karasu got out.


	2. First

There was a line to be toed. When Karasu finished killing his victims, he always had to be sure that he didn't earn himself too much time in solitary, a dispensation to be sent to another jail, or get himself put on death row. Most of the time he sweet-talked the guards or made sure someone else was implicated in the killing, but there were still the occasional slip-ups. This month in solitary had been one of those slip-ups. When he came walking out, a beard growing on his face and his violet eyes crazy, he was immediately waylaid by another Makaian and told of the danger of his new cellmate. Having been regaled with stories, he could see for himself that the majority of the block quaked in their boots nowadays at the mere mention of this boy's name. He came to a decision quickly.

Dangerous and clever—with no girlish fear of cutting off a rapist's balls, and a face that even the owner of the most piss-soaked pants on the lot called gorgeous—that sounded like Karasu's dream boy, though he didn't say it. Instead, he took a detour before returning to his cell to the head guard of this section of the prison, a greasy little weasel called Tarukane who conspired for the warden's spot, and who had, Karasu knew, a taste for viewing young meat. Once that was settled, he went to find Toguro. The Makaians had to be assuaged, and he needed a few things before he went back—a shave, for one.

—

Kurama was reading a book when they came. He stood up, demanding to know why they were searching his cell, and was gingerly guided out by one of the guards, who quailed under his vicious stare. Karasu had murmured to Tarukane the best, cleverest hiding spots in the cell, and with Karasu's oblique guidance it didn't take them long to find the four different knives Kurama'd put aside for a rainy day, one on his own body.

These were removed, but Kurama was left in the cell. That piqued his interest. No sooner had the guards left, having effectively disarmed him, than Kurama heard slow footsteps on the concrete outside his cell.

Kurama's first impression of him was that he was tall. Towering, in fact, only stopping short of Toguro by a few inches. The second thing he noticed, besides his curtain of sable hair that was knotted into a lax ponytail behind his back, were his eyes. Kurama knew what an expression free from inhibitions looked like—he saw it every time he looked in the mirror—and this man's face, handsome, narrow and peaked, made Kurama think of the evil stare of a crow, flat and dull with cruelty. There was no restraint in his gaze, no mercy, just a violet pit of remorselessness and malice that put Kurama on instant guard. It didn't help Kurama's trepidation that the man's eyes disrobed Kurama as he moved, starting at the feet and then dragging slowly up.

Kurama assessed him carefully, already sure he had a clear idea of who this man was, and began to make plans on how best to neutralize the danger. Karasu strode into the cell, an economy of movement giving him a graceful anima that Kurama quietly admired. Karasu paused, hands slipping into his pumpkin-colored pockets, and leaned against the wall, smiling at Kurama. He betrayed no emotion when the claxon started howling, announcing the start of a cellblock lock down. Kurama tensed, but didn't react any more strongly than that. Guards strolled by, tapping railings with their batons, and when one of them passed by Karasu's cell, he turned a key and, with an automatic hiss, the metal bars of the door slammed shut and locked. No human effort could open them now.

Kurama glared, but Karasu still leaned against the off-white concrete wall, his arms loose and that same sadistic smile pulling at his face. "Foxes," Karasu declared suddenly, his voice smooth, "are strange creatures." Kurama said nothing, eyes never leaving Karasu's face. "They're very clever, and incredibly resourceful—I've hunted them before, and they'll use any means they can to protect themselves. They're cunning, and quick—it's no wonder they were sport for old-time aristos."

"Are we really going to sit and chat about ecology?" Kurama sniffed daintily, eyes half-lidded but still watching Karasu, his mind screaming at him that danger was approaching, and approaching fast.

Karasu began to move, sauntering around Kurama's seat on the cot, staying out of reach of a punch, but not a kick. Kurama filed that away for future use. "The trick with foxes is to outsmart them, and then overpower them. This is usually easy to do. Especially—"

Kurama saw the sudden movement and kicked, but his leg was batted easily to the side, grabbed and used to drag him off the bed, his ass connecting with the concrete hard enough to bruise, the sheets coming with him. Kurama tried to bite at Karasu's ankles, flailing, but Karasu kicked him hard enough to daze him and start a flow of coppery blood down his chin. Utilizing Kurama's bewildered senses, Karasu grabbed the thin industrial sheets and hefted the boy himself around the middle, slamming the jackknifing body against the bars of their cell and ignoring the bleary struggles as Kurama began to swim out of the haze.

In moments he'd tied one of Kurama's wrists with the sheet, mercilessly tight, and fed the other end through the bars. Kurama finally came back to himself, spitting the blood from his mouth and through the bars, some of it dribbling onto the white cotton cloth and staining it red. He was surprised at how similar his own blood tasted to that of everyone else's. Kurama began to thrash wildly as Karasu used his body weight to keep him in place, a firm hold with his teeth on his neck taking away Kurama's ability to head butt him and his knees forcing Kurama's legs into the bars, negating most of his kicks and attempted stomps. The edge of the sheet was pulled back in, several bars down from where it had been put out, and soon Kurama's arms were canted painfully and tied together.

"Sh, little girl, this will be over soon. Shhh—" At Kurama's snarl and thrash, Karasu drew back Kurama's head and slammed it into the bars, making Kurama's eyes cross. "Sh sh sh, my little punk."

Kurama jerked, but made no sound as his pants were lowered, Karasu ignoring Kurama's flaccid cock completely and freeing his own dripping length almost as an afterthought. The violence excited him, the thrill of the blood and the helpless rage spearing him with lust. He spread Kurama's flexible legs and hooked them well off the ground, until they were positioned almost past what Kurama could hold. With a show of strength on Karasu's part, they _were_ past what Kurama could hold, and kept in place with vicious pressure.

Realizing his attacker's meticulousness, realizing that he was helpless, Kurama relaxed himself with the help of years of practice and thought of revenge. He knew that Karasu had left his mouth unbound for a reason—and he knew he was taunting him. Kurama could stop this brutality in its tracks by making a big enough fuss and screaming for a guard, but that option was impossible.

He had to kill Karasu. If they were cellmates, Karasu would go to sleep eventually, and even if Kurama were tied up, Karasu would not find himself safe. He could go through the official methods of stopping the abuse Karasu fully intended to become his new reality, but that would take bureaucracy, time, and a loss of respect. Kurama was not an idiot—he knew what a loss of respect would entail in prison.

"You're used to this, aren't you?" Kurama controlled his muscles, Karasu's words making an ugly look creep onto his pretty face. "Distracting yourself—repressing—unhealthy, unhealthy." Karasu cackled, voice patronizing. "You're going to be amusing. Now, look outside. You see there, across from us?"

Karasu's hand fixed onto Kurama's cock, meanwhile. Kurama realized that Karasu had hooked the leg his right hand had been holding up over the cross-section of the bars, forcing his hips into a clumsy position. There was no way to free himself or move his lower body without Karasu noticing. Reluctant to disobey and earn more pain, he glanced over the wide concrete floor, and his body stiffened, blood running cold with anger.

Every prisoner who could see them was staring, with grins plastered on their faces Kurama knew from his years as a stripper and a whore. Right across from him, a muscled bastard with tattoos coiling around his body was upright in his cot, his head speculatively askew as he tugged his dick, carefully lined up with Kurama's exposed ass. Kurama shivered in suppressed rage as Karasu's hand left Kurama's cock, traitorously hard and needy as Karasu forced Kurama's hips to tilt, revealing Kurama's clenched hole to the perverts across from them. Kurama watched the voyeur hitch in a breath and pull harder, and the humiliation and aggressive fury were almost enough to make him scream.

Kurama bared his teeth instead. "You will not find this fox so easy to corner!"

Karasu smiled, and Kurama cursed his miscalculation. He could not lull him into a false sense of security if he was constantly reminding him of how dangerous he was. Kurama tried to loll his head back, pretending he was doing it out of pain, only to have it slammed into the bars once more.

"Trying to bite me, little fox?" Karasu hissed, and then worked Kurama's sensitive earlobe harshly between his canines in response to Kurama's frustrated groan. Swimming back to consciousness, Kurama was sick with shame when he realized that a long, elegant finger was toying with his entrance, running over the puckered muscle and teasing it cruelly, then drifting up to caress his balls, fingers parted so Kurama couldn't thrust his hips and slam the molesting hand into bars. The feeling of having someone a step ahead at all times was driving Kurama wild with hate, and it was impeding his attempts to come up with a way to stop, hurt, maim, endure, anything but play into Karasu's hand.

The voyeur across from them focused in his mind, the other peeping toms' faces just fading away. He tried to stop the slavering man with his glare, thinking that even that would be some small victory to cling to in this shameful defeat, but Karasu noticed, and took that moment to pierce him with his fingers. It couldn't help but draw a reaction from him, and when his eyes re-opened, it was to see the voyeur's eyes rolling and white spilling out from beneath his fingers. Kurama thrashed once as Karasu once again took advantage of his distraction and slammed him down, barely prepared and unlubricated, onto Karasu's cock.

His breath stuttered and stopped as Karasu moaned in his ear, tearing at his hair, his clothes, completely neglecting Kurama's cock in favor of his own lust. Kurama was glad of that, glad that the scream that wanted to come out had been shocked into staying within—he couldn't have stood it if he'd screamed.

Kurama's mind drifted across memories of men he'd killed, so many of them, reaching into the unplumbed depths of his imagination for things to do to this beast. Karasu would pay. Kurama knew with unwavering certainty that Karasu would regret this, one day. For every jarring thrust and for the bruising grip on his oddly manipulated hips and aching back, for the laughter in his ear and the burning of Kurama's cock as Karasu cruelly angled himself to hit one spot inside of him, he'd pay. Seeing flesh in front of him, he tried to bite, and was slammed into the bars for the third time in minutes.

He could feel Karasu's grunts shivering inside of him, could feel his pace speed up, the cock stiffening, and was horrified when hands closed around his own shaft and began to tease Kurama mercilessly. He tried to force his usual iron control down onto his muscles, but it was useless—Karasu expected it, manipulated it, drawing his uncircumcised foreskin along the head, stroking the glans, toying with him.

Kurama was humiliated when he realized his body, though twisted, turned, and abused, was racing towards orgasm. His head lolled to the side as he relaxed, allowing it to happen, even wanting it, knowing that when he came he would no longer be focusing on his surroundings.

The length inside him swelled, and he prepared himself for the horrid feeling of come in his ass, even as his own disloyal member tightened on its own. He was there, almost there, almost—

The hand encircling his cock suddenly tightened brutally, and Kurama couldn't help it. He squawked, he writhed, his muscles contracted, but the grip on his penis was like iron, denying him, forcing the heat and frustration and pain to build up behind his eyes. Then Karasu groaned, holding him even tighter, performing the last vicious thrusts with no regard for the boy before him. When he was done, he sighed, his hand going lax, his cock slipping out.

Kurama was ashamed to find himself sobbing in aggravation and resentment. He was too frustrated, having been denied an orgasm on top of everything else, to be enraged at that moment—that would come later. He barely registered as he was unhooked and dragged to the bed, his feet lashed to the bedposts and arms tied behind his back, a gag in his mouth, muffling his pained moans, and a blanket over him to hide it all, giving the guards plausible deniability.

Karasu whistled, and moments later a callous young guard walked by, hiding a smirk as he passed their cell, eyes skittering over the body on the bed that heaved with breath. Not long after that, the gates opened, rumors flying about what had happened in cell number 043, Karasu's makeshift home, even as the official denials also flew, claiming a reliable tip that had come to nothing.

Kurama barely noticed the prisoners that paused outside to snicker and murmur before moving on. He barely noticed his surroundings, his bindings, his body that still hummed with the orgasm he'd been denied, the abuse, the pain. All that was in his mind was revenge.

He waited for Karasu to come with single-minded hate, knowing that the man would not get away with this for long.

"Prisoner Minamino," an oily voice sneered from behind him. Kurama tensed. "The cell block has to be rearranged. I thought I would reassure you that Karasu will be in a separate cell as of tonight. He'll come to get his things soon." The guard walked away, and Kurama thought he would die. He wanted to. Karasu had seen the danger of sleeping with him, and subverted it nicely.

He heard steps approach him, and then a hand slid under the blanket and gripped his ass, still slick with semen he couldn't clean up. "Still sore?" Karasu's voice asked, amused. "Have a lovely night." The blanket was put back in place, and Karasu laughed softly and left.

Kurama stared into the darkened pillow, and couldn't think of anything but fury.


	3. Pro

**Author's Note****:** Without Artemic, this chapter may never have completed itself. She has my sincere thanks for her patience, and for her incredible plot ideas. If only she were writing this instead of me! Without Onlyinthislight, too, this story would have been hopelessly impossible in the first place. Thank you both!

* * *

><p>To be in prison is to forget. Even resilient men disconnect from the ground outside the walls and gun turrets, and start to believe only the baked earth of the lot is real, and nothing extends beyond the high walls. To be in prison is to imagine that the whole world is as desperate and miserable as you.<p>

Spotlights were hunkered down in steel funnels on the block's ceiling, watchful suns to the inmates. Their dirty light spewed into the cells, filling Toguro's accommodations with a subdued glow.

Toguro tapped his meaty knuckles against the steel supports of the bed, leaning against the sweating wall behind the dingy mattress. "You're dreaming again," he grunted. "Pay attention."

"Oh, leave him be," Aniki giggled. "He's just full of that redheaded whore—aren't you, Karasu? I'll give you some nice things if you give me a taste next time. We could exchange a cigarette while he watches, make him think you value him at that level."

"He's mine," Karasu insisted sullenly. "Besides, he requires delicate handling. It would be easier if we were out of the tombs," he mused. "Discretion is dangerous."

"Karasu," Toguro growled, "you damn Chester, there are more important things to focus on than that boy."

"I'm not after children," Karasu said, frowning.

"What have I been talking about for the last hour?"

"Jobs. Rivalries. Don't worry, Gourmet will catch his cold soon." Karasu's frown rose into a luminous smile, his eyes relaxing at the idea of death.

"_When?"_

"You insult my honor as a professional," Karasu responded dryly. "It'll be done tonight."

"It damn well better. You're lucky you didn't lose your spot, getting tossed into solitary for a month. I don't know why the hell I put up with you," Toguro grunted, adjusting his immense mass until he sat with his head resting on his gigantic fist, his arm propped up against the wall. The Makaian stronghold, a series of cells that housed most of the gang's higher-ups, was currently hosting a meeting. Gokumonki was standing guard outside, his big frame leaning solidly on the railings, affecting negligence and nonchalance in a vain attempt to not alert guards and enemies.

Karasu leaned in farther, his violet eyes narrowing with studied impudence that Toguro found tiring. "You could never replace me."

"I could replace you easily; there are dozens of new blood with the potential. It wouldn't take anything more than some training," Toguro responded flatly. Bui winced slightly, remembering his own training under Toguro. Tutelage for the Makaian's upper level made getting kicked in look like a baby shower.

Karasu waved his hand gracefully, arrogantly sweeping away the statement and all its implications on his worth. "My little one will be stirring soon," he said, arching his eyebrows suggestively. "Let's wrap this meeting up."

His little one, in the meantime, had stirred some time ago. It hadn't taken long once he'd mastered his anger to work his hands from their bonds—Karasu tied good knots, but sheets are slippery things, and he'd managed to slide the tail of the knot out with ten determined minutes of judicious twisting and pulling—and the rest of the night (which was now, though it was hard to tell inside the walls of the prison, sunk into morning) had been spent meditating, scheming, and aching for the bars to open.

In the darkest part of the night, when Kurama sat crouched on the edge of the bed, his eyes as regal and savage as a mountain lion jilted by a doe, he had watched the voyeur snoring fitfully across from him, every inch of Kurama the predator stalking his prey. He'd decided that he'd have to do Karasu and the voyeur close together, the voyeur second (it would be better to leave him alive awhile, even, so he'd know his fate). The death of Karasu would need more time and machinations, but the death of the voyeur could awaken Karasu to how vulnerable he truly was to Kurama. Having spent the night plotting, he allowed himself to rest towards daybreak, saving up energy so he wouldn't be the slightest bit blurred in the morning.

When his door had rolled back with a grinding clang Kurama had taken a spritely leap from his cot, a flush of light bursting from the ceiling as the dimmed bulbs flared up, signifying an artificial morning. Kurama went straight to the showers, relieved to find them nearly empty so promptly in the morning, and then went and ate some rubbery scrambled eggs and too-tough bacon. Snickers, comments, and trailing eyes couldn't interrupt him, and luckily his reputation hadn't taken enough of a blow for the riffraff to come sniffing, at least not yet. Kurama felt exhausted at the thought, at the battle ahead of him, but shook it off almost immediately. There were things he had to do today.

Karasu had seen him, so there would be no easy approach. Kurama cursed his features—he couldn't blend in anywhere, least of all a contained place like a prison. It was a miracle his trophies hadn't resulted in his imprisonment years ago. He thought of his victims silently, his smile running bizarre.

_Karasu will make a lovely trophy,_ he pondered, and his smile grew slick, the thought full of possibilities.

For now, there was no way to get from here to there, though Kurama itched for violence. Instead, he sauntered beyond him, in the opposite direction. Karasu's pale body and gaunt face were animated, like a corpse brought to life, as he regaled a crowd with the story of last night. The rousing cheers and laughter weren't physically wounding, so Kurama could handle it—forgive it, even. Karasu would pay for his arrogance soon enough, and the secret thrill of plotting a murder kept Kurama relaxed.

An hour later, he was kneeling in the library on a ratty mauve carpet. The guard he had chosen panted, leaning back against a steel bookshelf that was kept unusually well stocked for this purpose. The man was gulping in air, one hand clenched on a random shelf, rolling trim hips to force his cock further down Kurama's willing throat. He was helpless to look away from the disdain in the starry green eyes that somehow never wavered from his face. Kurama wasn't seeing him, but the illusion of it was more than enough, too much for this guard's meager sadism and stamina.

The gun the man was holding against his head was ignored, trivial. Kurama knew the man wouldn't shoot, and was limitlessly careful that he never became too aroused, so there was no danger of involuntary spasms. The barrel had been wriggled through his hair. He could feel it scraping against his temple, cold. Kurama hummed around the cock in his mouth, and then lifted himself off it sloppily, making the guard's entire body shudder. He blew teasingly on the head.

"Tell me what you know of the prisoner Karasu," Kurama said clearly, his voice husky from current exertions.

"Or you'll do what, whore?" the guard sneered, and then moaned helplessly as one of Kurama's hands, originally curled around the back of his knee, instead reached up and squeezed the man's swollen sac.

"Stop blowing you, obviously," Kurama derided, looking up teasingly. He knew how to play this part—he'd known it since he was twelve years old, and he'd first begun stripping. Then, it'd been private gigs in people's homes—obviously, he'd looked far too young to work legally in a club. Maybe that was where he'd learned the disdain. Kurama wasn't sure. He couldn't remember not feeling it, the faint distaste for living beings, the hatred of people that came to him so naturally.

"What's there to tell?"

Kurama's eyes turned to iron. His hand impatiently swatted aside the gun, and drew back awkwardly to stand.

The guard blinked, confused by the dismissal. "You fucking bitch—"

"Tell me what I want to know or I walk."

Convinced more by his aching cock than any argument Kurama could have mustered in defense, the guard eagerly agreed. When Kurama's talents were once again being put to good use, the guard began to speak, with frequent pauses to curse or moan, Kurama interrupting him occasionally to probe for more information.

Kurama was a pro. The man couldn't cum, not until Kurama had drained him dry, sucked him clean, swallowing every last drop.


End file.
